


The Grid: A Tron Legacy Reboot

by fated_addiction, oxymoronassoc



Series: The Grid [1]
Category: Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 11:04:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11713101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fated_addiction/pseuds/fated_addiction, https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxymoronassoc/pseuds/oxymoronassoc
Summary: PLEASE NOTE THIS IS AN UNFINISHED ORIGINAL WIP REWRITE OF TRON LEGACY. Authors have no intention to finish it.--This is not a story about how technology has failed us nor how we have failed technology. This is an older story. This is a story about gods and monsters and monsters and gods. This is a story about those who have faith and those who have lost it. This is a story about two families, torn apart not by love nor war but by ambition, by perfection. They are all lost. They are all shades. We are all zeroes and ones. And all we want is to believe.There is something out there bigger than us.





	1. Chapter 1

**.000**

This is not a story about how technology has failed us nor how we have failed technology. This is an older story. This is a story about gods and monsters and monsters and gods. This is a story about those who have faith and those who have lost it. This is a story about two families, torn apart not by love nor war but by ambition, by perfection. They are all lost. They are all shades. We are all zeroes and ones. And all we want is to believe.

There is something out there bigger than us.

 

_(The Grid._

_A digital frontier._

_I tried to picture clusters of information as they moved through the computer. What did they look like? Ships? Motorcycles? Were the circuits like freeways? I kept dreaming of a world I thought I'd never see._

_And then,_

_one day,_

_I got in.)_

 

It's a modern city, built on a grid. There are no winding streets to lose you, just pure uniformity. The buildings are tall, the buildings are large, are small, are uniform. The buildings are glass and stone and brick and steel. They tower above the people, casting them into shadows along the starkly lit and outlined boulevards, tapering out from the center into a sprawl of lower buildings.

This city has everything you'd expect to find: streets, alleys, roads, boulevards, even highways, buildings--skyscrapers, tenements, apartments, mid-level office blocks, coffee shops, clubs, carparks, sports arenas, police stations, houses, whatever. It's all here, teaming and thriving within the metropolis. It's a wonder of sharp lines, bright lights. It's an oasis of sensation, technology, humanity. Outside the city stretches a wasteland as far as the eye can see. But no one seems to notice that they're trapped on this island, this island of senses, of sight and sound and touch and scent and taste and time and space.

It's a stark, beautiful world, rendered almost exclusively in black and white, like an old movie or a bleached-out circuit board, with hints here and there of icy neon blue and toxic red-orange. It's a perfect world that doesn't know how truly flawed at its core it has become--and always was. It's a world built on lies and bad ideas, absolutes and ideals. It's a world built inside a computer. It's a world of intangibles. It's a world of bytes. It's a world of pixels. They are all pixels. They are all zeroes and ones.

This is a city that has been forsaken by its god.

 

**.001**

Your father leaves when you're five. He tucks you in for the night. You're on the sleeper sofa at Nana and Papa's. You talk about Tron. He gives you a shiny new quarter. You're going to the arcade tomorrow. Your father kisses your forehead, picks up his keys and jacket, says goodnight. He's been working a lot lately, but only when you're asleep so you rarely miss him. You're excited about the arcade, excited to hear more about Tron's adventures, excited to play the game with your dad, just excited in general. Your father was excited before he left and he leaves some of that with you. You close your eyes, you eventually fall asleep, the quarter clutched in your fist. In God We Trust. 1987.

When you wake up, everything has changed and you don't even know it until you turn on the TV.

> _"Good evening. Our Lead Story:_ _Encom CEO and videogame icon Kevin Flynn has disappeared._
> 
> _He was best know for designing "Tron" and "Space Paranoias", the two best-selling videogames in history. Flynn took ownership of Encom in 1982 as the company skyrocketed to the top of the tech industry. But things changed in 1985 with the unfortunate, untimely death of Flynn's wife, the mother of his young son, Sam._
> 
> _Recently, Encom board members have been troubled by reports of Flynn's erratic, even obsessive behavior. With Flynn missing, the company is now in chaos. This afternoon Encom's board moved to seize control from Flynn's partner Alan Bradley, vowing to return the company to profitability. Loyal to the end, Bradley maintains his belief that Flynn is not missing, and is instead perusing his dream of quote '"digital frontier to reshape the human condition"._
> 
> _Even Flynn's most ardent supporters are now acknowledging a difficult truth--Kevin Flynn may have simply run away, given up, or even taken his life. And while Flynn's loyalist hope for his imminent return, there is perhaps no one who wouldn't give to have him back more than young Sam Flynn, now in the care of his grandparents, heir to an empire in turmoil._
> 
> _...What will become of Flynn's legacy and the future of Encom will mostly likely depend on what becomes of this now orphaned little boy..."_
> 
>  

You grow up. Everyone does. It's hard at first. And then it gets easier. Or that's what people say, anyway. You're not sure if it gets easier or just gets further away, distant, experiences becoming impressions, small moments played over and over again till they're like grooves in a worn record. Not that you own records. Cassettes, maybe as a kid. Then CDs. MP3 players. The world has moved on and you try to, too.

The quarter is always in your pocket.

Everyone always comments on what a quiet child you are, were. Except Alan, never Alan. He's like the dad you never had--not the dad you used to have. Alan is calmer, quieter, more subtle. His wife, Lora, is kind to you, like an aunt. You stay sometimes at their house. Alan is your trustee. He has two children a few years younger than you are--a boy and a girl. They're laughingly called the Miracle Twins. It's not until you're older you really understand why. They're like cousins to you, or what you'd guess cousins would be like. Your father was an only child; your mother's family is and always has been distant.

 

You aren't quiet. You're thinking. Always thinking.

 

When you're twelve, your Nana and Papa die within a year of each other. You try to shrug it off, act like it doesn't matter. You cry at the funeral. The tears are hot and harsh and you feel ashamed and, for the first time since your father left, scared and alone. You're always scared and alone. This is what drives you.

You live with Alan until you finish middle school, and then you move to California, to live with your aunt. It's sudden and unexpected. It throws the family into turmoil, but you are solid in your belief of the rightness in the decision. This is the way to get into Cal Tech. Alan believes in your earnestness; he recognizes a kindred spirit, so he signs the papers and allows it. And you do it. You go to Cal Tech.

You're in your final year of college, and some ugly maggot worms into your brain and starts to ask you questions you've successfully put off for years: who are you doing this for and what it will prove?

You've never wanted to head your father's company. You're 21. You drop out. You drift. You go back to Central City. Alan comes to confront you, like an angry father, but you have no father. He doesn't care about your self pity and rails at you: You're brilliant. You're better than this he says and you laugh. You're drunk, maybe, probably.

Go to the board-meeting on Tuesday, Alan says. You won't regret it.

At least you know now Alan is a liar.

 

**.002**

He's running late for his own meeting. He sighs and he can almost see his breath. It's drizzling. Of course it's drizzling. Shake it off, man, he tells himself silently, shifting gears and passing a car. He's going too fast. He's late. He doesn't care.

The cop lights up behind him and he laughs. His stomach doesn't clench, he doesn't hit the brake with worry. No, instead he speeds up, weaving faster between cars. It's a game now. It's always been a game. A game he knows he'll always win. Which makes it less fun, but it's still a game. The question now is how far he can go, how long he can last until the time runs out. He switches off his headlight, jumps the bike off a down sloping off-ramp, cruises down onto the side street.

The cop is gone, but so is the thrill.

He pulls up in front of the Starbucks that's on street level of the huge skyscraper. It's late. There are no cars parked along the curb. Probably because of street sweeping in the morning, but he doesn't care. This won't take that long. He leaves the bike out front. He's not sure why. Maybe he hopes someone will notice, will up the game. But no one does, so he goes around back, to the entrance bay for the catering or whatever. Well, not whatever. He knows what goes in and out. He just doesn't care.

He uses the program he wrote earlier on his phone to open the door. It's huge, like a vault. He's momentarily impressed; he usually uses the front door or the service entrance. Whatever's in the plan.

And then he's inside and up the stairs and disabling the camera with a move he's practiced the last three months. Ditto running the stairs. If anyone really kept an eye on him, they'd have known he was up to something as soon as he became overly interested in running stadium stairs. But no one is, not these days.

He reaches the top of the stairs just a little out of breath and shuts the door quietly behind himself. The meeting is already in progress, in that huge glass-walled office, but no one is looking at him. They're too busy looking at _him_. He'd call him his nemesis, but he doesn't care that much. Or maybe he cares too much and knows this man cares too little. Either way, he's moving forward, towards the huge, air-conditioned room that houses the servers. It's too easy to get in. He's been saying that for years, not that anyone listened or cared. Maybe they will now, but too little too late.

Oh, well, maybe _someone_ cared. Those lasers weren't on the schematics he studied nor mentioned on the tour he forced some exec to give him several months past. He shrugs it off, runs down the aisle, opens the drawer he's memorized the location of. 

Minutes seem like hours, seconds days, megabytes like the slowest moving particle on the planet. He's cursing his stupid smartphone--how smart is it now?--but suddenly it beeps and it's done and he's racing down the opposite aisle from the overweight security guard that creeps slowly along, shouting for him to freeze.

He never really planned to go back down the stairs. Not really. What would be the thrill in that? He always hopes he'll get caught, in the back of his mind at least. So he goes back into the stairwell but up this time, to the roof. He doesn't expect the security guard to follow. Or to argue with him.

"Why? This is your father's company?" the man asks with disbelief.

He shrugs. "Not any more." And then he jumps.

The wind rips at his face and he can't hear the security guard calling for him over the rush of air. The feeling is amazing and he wants it to last forever or at least longer than it does, but it's time, and he pulls the chute.

He doesn't expect to snag it on a streetlight. Goddamn urban living.

But there's a cab and he jumps on it and expects it to stop, but the guy swerves and--who swerves when someone falls on your car? he thinks for the scant moment he has before he's rolling down the front of the car and sprinting for the police blockade that is assembling. You'd think they'd learn, he thinks as he catapults himself across one of the hoods.

The spotlight of the copter comes on then, and it's game over.

"You got me," he laughs, like something possessed, even as he puts his hands in the air. 

**.003**

It's a garage. The pager sits listlessly in the seat next to her.

"Fuck," she breathes. Amy Bradley slides a hand over her face again, half-leaning into her steering wheel. Her head is spinning. Have to go see Sam, her dad had said. Sam. That Sam.

The collar of her trench is cutting into her throat. She reaches and grabs the pager, throwing her car door open and sliding out. She tries not to think about the real reason she's here - that's changed several times since the drive over. The point is, and there continues to be, that: Kevin, it's Kevin. Sam needs to know. It's Kevin's number.

She doesn't know whether or not to knock on the door or just walk in. Part of her holds onto the reasoning that this is Sam; she expects a parade of girls though, clad in button-downs and blushes - all things that come along with that awkward poetry from being the boy genius and heir.

Amy knocks.

There is no response from the other side. She yanks the garage door open, letting it push back. When she steps inside, she greeted by the odd sight of a drab clutter of parts and papers, a motorcycle and few random beers on an odd worktable. There is a t-shirt pinned to a cork board. A box of tools is opened off to the side. She doesn't know how to react, not instantly, but it is very plain, very unlike the picture of Sam she drove over having.

She hears him first. "Sam?" she calls out.

The dog comes first, charging her legs with an excited yelp. Amy tenses and then laughs softly, watching as he scrapes against her legs. She leans forward and brushes her fingers against the crown of his head.

"The prodigal daughter returns."

Amy tenses. The dog loses interest quickly. She hears the sound of a bottle cap hitting the floor and Sam comes into view, moving straight to his couch instead of greeting her.

"Ass -" she starts but stops herself. She remembers the pager, taking a deep breath. "It's been awhile," she mutters. But he doesn't answer. For a brief moment, she regrets getting involved.

She fixes her gaze on Sam.

"Your place is ridiculous," she says finally. Her hands slide into her jacket. Her fingers curl around the pager. "I figured you'd at least have the sort of girlfriend walking around in a button-down that you never wear - only because you've never been the collared shirt kind of guy."

He shrugs. His mouth twitches. "Disappointed?"

"Seriously."

She rocks lightly on her heels, turning away and looking to the window. The city grows right in front of her; it's an odd picture, not like home, not like her parents who choose to live on the outskirts, in a straight and narrow neighborhood with gardens and children on bikes and the occasional party.

Her hand tightens around the pager. "Dad was going to come," she murmurs. "Something came up. Dad says he likes to check up on you."

"Kinda his thing," Sam says dryly.

Her eyes close. This isn't about pointing fingers, she tells herself.

"I came instead, Sam."

"It's been awhile anyway," Sam agrees, and her eyes open, catching him in the reflection of the window. He's leaning back in the chair, his fingers curled around the neck of his beer. It dangles briefly. He then pulls it to his mouth, his eyes never leaving where she stands. "You look good, you know," he tells her. His voice catches and she watches him swallow. "Saw the occasional picture when you were in college - Alan said you weren't big on visiting."

She tenses. "Did he tell you why?"

Sam snorts.

They're quiet. Amy pushes herself away from the window. She's wasting time, she thinks. She pulls the pager out of her jacket and then sets it onto the coffee table. She doesn't meet Sam's gaze.

"Seriously?" he asks, and she ignores him, moving back, behind the couch. The motorcycle stands, unfamiliar against the stark, almost too normal mess of Sam's apartment. It's beautiful, she almost says. It's a Ducati. There was one in the garage when they were kids. She used ride behind Sam, wide-eyed and impressed. He'd go fast, then faster when they were out of sight, away from the neighborhood with her parents unable to watch. It was a strange kind of freedom; one she'd been happy to share with Sam.

"Amy."

She blinks, looking up. Sam's holding the pager, staring at her.

"What the hell?" he says, holding it up. "This isn't the eighties."

She rolls her eyes.

"It's my dad's," she says tiredly. Her hand brushes over the motorcycle seat. She hesitates. "I took it from him," she says, the words coming slowly. "He was on his way here to talk to you, but we just got some news -"

His mouth opens. Then closes. There's very little to say; he isn't around anymore, and she's made herself absent for a reason, something her parents seem to continue to hide and hold to themselves. He watches her, silent.

"Mom's sick," she finishes. "Cancer. I'm home indefinitely."

"Jesus," Sam mutters. His hand rubs over his eyes, his fingers closing tightly over the pager. "Jesus, kid. I'm so sorry."

"I'm not a kid," she says absently.

Sam flushes. He stands, finishing off his beer. "Sorry," he mutters. "But your - your mom? I didn't know."

"If you called more -"

"Because you've been home a lot." His eyes narrow. Sam talks to Dad, she remembers. Or rather, Dad talks to Sam. It shouldn't surprise her to remember these irrefutable facts about their family.

Sam sighs, stepping around to join her at his bike. He tries to hand her the pager. "I don't want to fight. Sorry, it's just -" he swallows. "You look good."

She ignores the compliment. It's almost half-hearted anyway, and she manages to finally pull her jacket off. She folds it neatly over her arm and then tosses it to the couch, considering, for the moment, how she should really approach this. There is the memory of her dad in the kitchen, sitting with his scotch, the pager, and the telephone - her dad never was good at hiding his emotions and the memory sits raw still in her mind.

"I have to tell you something."

Her fingers press into the leather of the motorcycle's seat. The pager is still in his hand.

"You're in trouble?" he asks, and his mouth twists. There's an old joke here. Something about miracles babies and the greater good; she hasn't forgotten. She's locked it up like the rest of them, angry - it doesn't make her any better, the worst of the worst.

"I'm not in trouble," she murmurs, suddenly too tired to fight.

His hand drops on the motorcycle seat beside hers, but not touching.

"I don't understand."

Amy's lips purse as she examines their hands. "It's your dad's number, Sam."

When she looks up, Sam's eyes are already wide, already too blue. He jumps back, and practically throws the pager onto the couch, like its burned him. He's muttering and whirls around, stalking to the fridge. She watches as he throws back the door and Marvin jolts out of his bed, rushing at his legs.

"Sam."

He doesn't turn. "This is a fucking joke," he growls. She sees him grab a beer. Her arms cross in front of her waist, her fingers digging into her skin. She bites her lip, waiting. "A fucking joke," he growls again, "should've - there's no need to drag this bullshit up again."

Her eyes narrow. "Why would I lie to you?"

He laughs. The sound is sharp and without humor. She watches as he downs his beer. The bottle slams into the kitchen counter.

"I don't know. Apparently no one knows what you do anymore."

She flinches. "Don't." Her fingers pinch the bridge of her nose. She remembers her dad again. "I'm not trying to start anything," she says slowly. Her mouth twists. "You know, my mom and all. There's Dad too, at home, probably passed out - I don't know. I don't have to explain myself to you even if I deserved that. But Jesus, Sam. Look at the pager. It's your dad's number."

He doesn't say anything. He opens the fridge again. He grabs another beer. She hears the cap fall this time - somewhere at his feet. Marvin scurries away from his legs, going back to hide in his bed.

There's another memory that surfaces; this time she's just a kid, and there's her brother, of course, and Sam, the three of them during a lazy summer talking-not-talking about plans. It's Jamie and Sam that she remembers the most, heads bowed over some stupid notes - theirs not hers, never hers. They were laughing but it was a wonderful feeling. It was home. Then, back, then, it was home.

"Can't do shit with glass," he says finally.

"Sam -"

He drinks slowly this time. "I bought these on sale. The girl at the counter thought it was the greatest thing - should've told her you can't do shit with glass."

Amy steps away from the bike.

"Did you hear me?" she presses.

"I heard you," he says.

She feels awkward now. She didn't come here with a plan. She figured she'd go and say Sam, your dad and like everyone else, he'd wake up and they'd talk about this, whatever this is supposed to mean.

She moves into the kitchen though, pressing against the counter next to him. Sam's head drops, and he's studying the counter-top. His fingers curl around the bottle and he slides it back and forth, curling his wrist to force the motion into a circle. Her throat tightens and she just feels tired, so fucking tired.

"You should probably go."

Amy snorts. "Fuck you."

His lips curl a little. "There's nothing to talk about."

"I'm not going anywhere," she says.

He pushes the beer across the counter. She doesn't take it. She shakes her head and Sam rolls his eyes.

"It doesn't bite."

"I remember the last time I drank with you," she mutters, clicking her nails on the concrete of the counter-top. Sam laughs awkwardly. "Idiot," she says softly, absently.

"You remember that?" he says, and leave it to Sam, she thinks; he's trying to take the subject change and she wonders if she should just let him, then bring it back to the problem at hand. Her lips quirk but she catches herself before she smiles too. She shakes her head.

"I mean- " he starts.

She reaches for the beer. The bottle presses against her mouth. She bites a sigh and then drinks.

"We made out in my mom's kitchen. And you were drunk. And I was - we're not talking about that."

Sam smirks. Her mouth is warm and she flushes, looking away. He leans over the counter though, stealing the beer back, his fingers hovering over hers. She remembers, she thinks. She remembers that stupid, hot and sticky summer where they weren't really talking about anything but a congratulations. She remembers his hands on her hips, and the way she sunk back into the kitchen counter; it was the whiskey that she swallowed, his mouth murmuring into hers, her fingers in his hair trying to pull him closer, surprised that this was Sam.

"The pager," she murmurs.

"It was hot as hell," he says, ignoring her attempt to shift the conversation back to why she was here in his kitchen in the first place tonight. The bottle hits the counter. "Your mom sent me inside to go and get you and -"

"Sam."

Her hands drop against the counter.

"You brought it up, kid," he says.

She narrows her eyes. Her throat is tight. "I came here to talk to you, asshole," she murmurs. She can feel it start to build in her. "Not do - " she waves her hand between them. "I don't know - Pick up the goddamn pager."

"Did Alan tell you? That it was Dad's number? Is this some stupid thing you're doing to get back at me?"

Her eyes widen. "Are you making this about kissing you? Are you really that stupid, Sam? Are you really making this about kissing?" her voice catches and this is just stupid, she thinks, this is just so stupid and such a bad idea. Maybe she came here to talk. Maybe not. There's feeling in the pit of her stomach, curling, twisting and she hasn't felt like this in years.

"You're an asshole," she breathes. "You're such an asshole."

She marches back to the couch, grabbing the pager. Marvin follows her too, half-growling, half-whimpering in excitement. She ignores the dog and grabs her coat, gripping it into her fist.

When she turns, Sam's moving to sit on his counter. His legs dangle off the side, swinging lightly as he finishes off his beer. She catches herself, her eyes burning. This was a terrible idea, she thinks again.

"I came for my dad," she tries. "I came because -" her mouth opens and closes. She sighs. "It was the right thing to do."

"Not interested," he shrugs, and his nonchalance is almost lazy. "Sorry you wasted a trip up here."

Amy hurls the pager at him, too furious to watch him stumble back against the counter as he catches it. It's happening, again, that anger that crawls, that still lives inside of her; there's no curbing it and looking at Sam, she sees her dad, she sees Jamie, and all the years that have just exhausted her. He used to be the person she thought would understand it. Instead he just fuels it.

His eyes are huge and she growls again, trying to regain some kind of control. But she's starting to shake too, her nails digging into her jacket. There are more insults, too many even, and it's her disappointment that hurts the most. She doesn't know what she was expecting from him. Like everyone else.

Amy's voice is soft, and too calm. "You can go to hell, Sam. It's your life. I'm done living in it."

Her mouth snaps shut. She turns around, her boots scuffing into his floor. She doesn't give him a chance to answer. She rips herself back into her jacket, stalking to the garage door and pushing it up. She pushes too hard and it hurts her palm. Her fingers are shaking.

It's colder outside and she half-expects to see Sam standing, watching her with some amusement before she gets to the safety of her car - even calling some half-hearted insult out because they were kids together once. He is the only other person who can make her feel seventeen again, just like her father, and go back to that day where everything changed. This is why she came, she thinks. Always falling back into bad habits.

Jamie was the good twin. She'll never forget that.

In the car, she nearly drops her keys. Her eyes are wet and tired and she turns the car on, the heavy rumbling startling her to look up. Sam's at the garage door, gripping the handle and staring at her curiously, waiting for her to go.

It's easy to throw the car back into reverse.

 

He cuts his lights first.

The house is nothing like he remembers: a little bit smaller, a little bit warm, and two cars in the driveway. Sam hasn't been back at Alan's house since the graduation party; he likes the anonymity of the city and Alan respects his privacy and somehow that puts together the silent agreement they've had for the last couple of years. Alan can try. Sam can pretend it doesn't get to him.

But he can't help giving into some kind of grin, rueful as he slides off his bike. He shoves his hands into his jacket and quietly finds the path to the back of the house. The grass is slick against his boots, sideswiping the heels and staining them with mud and dew. He can't remember if his old bedroom was on this side or that side of the house, but Amy's is just over the kitchen, the single window opening over the backyard. The light is on, the window is open, and he's relieved - he shouldn't be because he was kind of an ass and she was kind of bitchy and admitting that he was wrong isn't something he can just go ahead and do.

Sam searches for something to throw. His eyes darting around the yard; he sees a few stones, too big, too awkward, and too easy to attract everybody else. She'd kill him, he thinks.

"Damn it," he mutters, and grabs a fistful of dirt, a few pebbles catching against his palm. He eyes the window again and starts throwing them, one, two, and three, frowning as they tap the side frame. Nothing happens. He clears his throat. "Amy," he whispers loudly, half-calling. His hands cup his mouth and he sputters, coughing dirt away from his skin. "Fuck - Amy."

He pauses. This is stupid, he thinks. This is so stupid. He's sorry for Alan and Lora and the list of things that he just can't fix or react to; it's years and years unfolding, there and then, in this small, soft backyard where he used to catch himself watching the road even though he knew that his dad wasn't coming back. _It's your dad's number, Sam._

The phone in his pocket starts to vibrate.

Sam curses as he fumbles the pager in his pocket and answers the phone. There's a dry laugh on the other end of the line.

"What are you, twelve?"

His eyes narrow. "Fuck you." He's blushing too. "Are you gonna let me up?"

He can hear something rustle. He turns his gaze up to the window, catching the shadow as Amy materializes in front of him. She looks tired, he thinks. He feels guilty too, shuffling in the grass.

"You were an ass," she says.

"I'm terrible with girls."

Amy snorts.

"Look," he starts awkwardly. "I - let me up? I want to talk." He wants company, really. He doesn't want to walk into the arcade alone; he isn't a kid and sitting alone with the memories, now is different. "I'll be quiet," he adds.

She's silent. He's gripping the phone, waiting. He can't see her that well. He just keeps imagining her, back at his place, her eyes too wide and too goddamn bright. He never remembers her being like this as a kid. It makes him uncomfortable. All of this makes him uncomfortable.

"You're an ass," she says, and he listens to her sigh, her arm dangling out of the window. The light catches her bracelet. "And it's too late to have this conversation," she says, "The very same conversation that I wanted to have back at your place."

"Seriously though," he wheedles. He doesn't remember if the key's in the back or the front, under one of those faux rocks mixed in with Lora's beloved gardening. He had a key too - has one, but it's been lost for years to his work desk.

"Go home, Sam." Amy's voice is steady. "I told you I'm done."

"Your dad's a light sleeper still?"

"You would know better than I do," she says. There's something else, something more. She sighs loudly. "Go home."

He throws his hand up. "I'm ignoring you," he says.

"You always have."

He can't tell if she's just amused or annoyed or a little bit of both. But he's frustrated and he can't talk to her like this. He forces himself closer to the house, eyeing the side curiously. There's a long plank of fencing, braided and frayed into the house. He cracks his knuckles.

"Sam -"

He hangs up the phone, pocketing it. He moves closer to the fence, hooking his fingers into the wood. He pulls hard but nothing moves. Steady enough, he thinks. Sam grins.

He climbs easily, hoisting himself against the fencing without thinking; he's careful, measuring his balance, catching his shifts in weight, which parts of the wood are too old or weather damage. His hands grasp the window ledge and Amy darts back, rolling her eyes. He pushes himself over the ledge, grunting hard and then dropping himself into her room.

"Jesus," Amy breathes. "You'll wake up the house."

He snorts. "I'm okay, really."

His eyes dart around the room. It's still the same; the large, off-white walls housing a few posters. There's Nirvana framing the spot over her bed, the iconic image of the baby and the fishing line fading into the background. There are others - the hot genie girl, the band that she dragged both him and her brother off to see instead of heading to the movies like they promised her parents. He knows where she keeps the CDs, the ones that she'll never admit to listening to, the ones that he'd catch her, every once in awhile, humming to. It's fascinating the way the memories come back too. The dresser in the corner houses several photos, photos that he doesn't remember but knows that they're supposed to be there. He catches Alan smiling back, his wife; there are babies pictures and then one of him and Amy on her graduation, side by side, grinning. He doesn't remember that.

But it's the suitcase in the corner, large, imposing, that catches him off-guard, that doesn't belong. There are clothes inside still. The hint of silk draped over the side. He doesn't know why it bothers him, but it does.

"The room hasn't changed," he says finally, breathless. He wipes his hands on his jeans. He turns back to her. His hands shove into his pockets. "Doesn't that, like, weird you out or something?"

She shrugs.

He tries again. "You said I was wasting time."

"I said I came to talk to you," she murmurs, and sits on the bed, curling her legs underneath her. They're longer. Her skin is softer, pale. Her long blonde hair, tied back in a loose knot, is unraveling at the nape of her neck and his eyes dart to her mouth. Shit, he thinks. "Obviously, you didn't listen."

"Had a few beers," he says.

Amy scoffs.

"Look," he mutters. He waves his hands around. "I'm not good at this. Get dressed. Come to the arcade with me. I just - I don't know how -" to do this, he doesn't finish. Sam doesn't talk about feelings. Sam talks about impulses and mechanics. Sam talks about how things work.

He doesn't know how to start again either. He looks at her helplessly, watching as her gaze ducks down, drops to her lap. She's staring at her hands. He watches her swallow. _It's your dad's number, Sam._ You just don't leave after that. She is supposed to get that.

"Sit down," she says finally.

He blinks. She pats the mattress next to her, her fingers hovering over the blankets. He's hesitant, but drops down anyway. He sinks into the bed. She exhales and he can't help himself, nudging her shoulder.

"Just apologize," she mutters but her mouth is twitching and he can't help but feel some kind of thrill. He flashes another smile, warmer, and she lets out a laugh. He reaches forward, pushing her hair away from her face, just so that he can see her. "Sam," she warns.

"Sorry." He doesn't pull his hand away. "I'm sorry."

Her mouth opens but she says nothing. They both listen as the stairs outside her door begin to moan. Amy's eyes widen. Sam catches himself in a half-grin, bringing his fingers to her mouth. He can't help it. She tries to smack his hand away but he shakes his head.

"Don't want your dad to hear us," he teases. His voice is low and he shifts into her space. He forgets - it's just a moment, it's just so easy to let himself forget because she's here and he likes this kind of distraction. Her hair loops around his fingers and he watches as her eyes widen.

He could say something but he doesn't. For once, Sam stays quiet and they listen - or rather Amy listens. Sam just takes her in. It's selfish, the whole thing is so stupid because by now, if he hadn't stopped, just to see, he'd be halfway there and into checking what _your dad's number_ means.

"Sam," she breathes, and he leans over her, his mouth sliding against hers. He ignores the sound that she makes, or the fact that her hand frames his face in return, that he likes the way her fingers sort of spread against his jaw. She pulls herself closer to him and her teeth catch the bottom of his lip, just as she drags her tongue along it.

He shifts closer, leaning into the bed. But he falls back, then laughs into her mouth when she swings a leg over his lap, pinning him and straddling him into her bed. She pulls back slightly, her mouth hovering over his. He growls and she smirks. His eyes are half-lidded and he feels her fingers curl around his wrists, pinning them back by his head.

"I'm going to get dressed," she murmurs. This is ridiculous, he thinks. He can't even think of Amy as that almost kid sister because that just never happened. There are no excuses. When she smirks, he finds himself closing his eyes to her mouth against his jaw and that stupid laugh that he keeps forgetting how much he loves.

"Amy -"

"No," she cuts him off. "I'm going to get dressed. Then I'm going to come back. Then you're going to ask me for help. Then I'm going to say yes and you're going to stop trying to do this."

He chuckles. "You're the one on top."

She pulls back, drawing herself off of him and there's a flush spreading across her cheeks. He stays lying back, tucking his arms under his head and watching her in amusement. He holds onto that amusement, clearing his head.

"I missed you too," he drawls.

Amy opens her closet door and flips him the finger.

 

They let themselves laugh, climbing out of her bedroom window; it's like they're kids again, and she's flushed, ignoring his offer of help when she jumps down into the grass. She does catch his hand and he lets her, taking the time to fix and fidget with the collar on her jacket.

"Grass," he lies awkwardly.

She steps around him with a shrug. He waits for a moment and then shoves his hands into his pockets, his fingers curling back around the pager tightly. His eyes close briefly. Dad, he thinks. For fuck's sake. He doesn't know what he's walking into. There's this strange sense of uneasiness that lingers; it's been there for most of the night, after she came, after he sat there and stared at the damn pager, rolling the quarter back and forth over his fingers.

He blinks. When Sam catches up, Amy is leaning against his bike. Her gaze is glued to a row of windows in the front of the house. Her mouth sets into a frown and for a moment, it's _shit_ and _Alan_. He's not really ready for that kind of conversation.

"You okay?" he asks, and Amy doesn't answer. He follows her gaze and they both watch the lights in the front of the house turn on. Sam tenses, ready to move but Amy stays settled by his bike.

It unfolds slowly, the curtain peeling back as they both catch Alan at the window. Sam swallows and looks to Amy watching as she grows both sad and serious. He waits for her to say something because there is nothing, nothing he could say that would come out right. What's between him and Alan is something he can't give to her.

He can only give Alan a slight nod. The other man raises his hand in greeting and Amy makes a soft, unintelligible sound.

"Don't worry," she says softly. "He's not going to come out."

Sam grows uncomfortable. His hands go back to his pockets. "Should we go?"

Amy grabs the helmet off the back of his bike, stepping away. He watches her fingers flex against it and when she turns her back to the windows, she looks up at him. Her expression is full of grim determination.

"This has gone on for far too long," she says.

Sam slides onto the bike and she climbs on behind him. He doesn't say anything in reply; she knows he agrees.

 

**.004**

The arcade sits as silent as it always has. He's driven by it a few times a year. Someone, paid by his trust, or more accurately, tasked by Alan, checks the place a few times a year to make sure it hasn't been vandalized. Not that anyone would really dare to malign this haunted landmark, the last remnant of this city's disappeared golden son. The tower downtown doesn't count; that came later. Once a year, people lay flowers at the alcove doorway, like some homage to the dead. But Sam knows better. Even if his father was dead, he didn't deserve those flowers. Probably more likely in Costa Rica somewhere though, Sam thinks cynically.

He remembers the place from when he was a kid. It wasn't new even then. Flynn's Arcade sits in an old brick industrial center, far enough from the gentrified Old Town to still be scummy, even 30 years later. It's a silent neighborhood, without the gentrifying lofts you might expect in the neighboring buildings. This is, in part, Sam's fault. He found out, several years earlier, he owns most of the surrounding blocks, bought by his father on a whim before he was even born. And so they've sat, untouched and underdeveloped.

The brick arches frame the entry of Flynn's Arcade, casting it in shadows even when it's light out. Tonight, these hollows seem gloomier than ever. His key turns in the lock, heavily, awkwardly.

"Hurry up," Amy breathes behind him, shooting nervous looks.

"Scared?" he asks as he twists his wrist to the left.

"This is fucking creepy, alright?" she replies, hands stuffed in the pockets of her leather jacket. He can feel her breath on his neck.

"It's not like we're breaking and entering. Ahh," he exhales heavily as the door gives suddenly and his hand smashes down on the handle. It creaks and he steps inside the gloomy depths, lit a post-apocalyptic orange from the streetlight on the corner.

"Gross," Amy murmurs in reaction to the dust that hangs heavily in the air, though truly she is fascinated. Row after row of silent, ghostly, plastic-shrouded arcade games stretch out before them. She has this vague, nagging memory that is nothing more than a blur of lights and sounds--voices shouting and music and most of all the midi tones of the games. She shakes it off. She can't remember ever being here, though she's so sure she must've, as a toddler she guesses. Not since then. She's known of its existence, through her father, but she was never curious enough to bother. No--that isn't true. There was never a reason. Not until now. Until now, it was just some silent relic Sam dragged around with him, refusing developers' offers, a mausoleum to a happier time in his life, his own momento mori.

"Where's the breaker box?" she asks after a beat, mashing a thumb into her smartphone, holding it up like a flashlight in the dusty orange gloom.

"Uhh," he says, sounding stupid, which amuses her. He always acts so cocky and clever.

She points, "Right of the door, I think. Dumb place to put it. Anyone could touch that."

"Old building," he snaps defensively, crossing the few steps to the box on the wall and prying back the grey metal cover.

Amy holds her phone high over his shoulder and he scans the worn white relief Dynamo punch labels on the stickers next to each breaker before shrugging and jamming his thumb hard enough to turn white and then pink again to each one--except the one clearly marked for the neon sign above the door outside ("Flynn's" it reads. Above it still towers a now faded, vintage billboard for Space Paranoias that ambitious hip photographers climb the fire escape in the alley behind to access for photoshoots.).

The overhead lights don't come on but everything else does. They seem to be the only things truly shut off, as if someone had come into the arcade as soon as it was sure Flynn was never coming back and had just thrown the switch rather than shutting down the machines. Logically, Amy knows that can't be what happened, that the surge of electricity sparked the games back to life, even the jukebox that begins loudly blasting an old Journey hit single.

"Creepy," Sam murmurs, moving to the jukebox, pressing his hands into the plastic cover to force it taunt enough to see the songs displayed on the machine beneath.

"Separate Ways, cute," Amy drawls. She isn't sure where to look, her eyes dragging from one dusty, clear-plastic shrouded machine to another, each screaming its 8-bit theme song into the stagnant air. There is one in particular, however, that draws her, draws them both, like a nagging half-forgotten memory of childhood they can't quite put their fingers on, though neither mentions the feeling aloud.

The machine is set up between two doorways. One presumably leads to a set of stairs that go upwards into the ghostly lit office that presides over the arcade. The other, who knows. Concessions? It's the least of their questions in this moment. They both hesitate at the end of the black and white checkered linoleum aisle and then move towards the video game like two souls possessed. TRON it screams in brilliant blue neon lights, a half-arc over it to the right, below it to the left. Sam yanks the plastic off the machine in a violent tug that sends a cloud of dust up and they stare at the game screen for what feels like an eternity, watching the blue and yellow pixilated racers make square turns over and over across the black grid. The groaning noise of the racers roars in both their ears, drowning out even the music that blares behind them.

Sam shoves his hand into the pocket of his jeans suddenly, fetching out a quarter, which he flips in a practiced move before shoving it unceremoniously into the machine.

"It's not gonna--" Amy starts, feeling a sudden surge of pity for him even as the coin pops out and crashes with a tinny, recognizable sound to the floor.

"Move," Sam snarls, and she steps back as he crouches, bending to retrieve the coin. "Shit," he says suddenly, his voice gone low and strangely urgent, enough so she thinks she mishears the tone.

"I have another quarter," she says but he isn't listening. He's running his finger along the floor. "What is it?" she demands.

He ignores her, staring up at the console before rising to his feet and yanking suddenly, violently at the console.

"Sam--" she begins but whatever she wanted to say is cut off as the game swings away from the wall, revealing a small metal door in the brick wall behind it. "Son of a bitch," she mutters, following Sam as he hauls it open and crawls through. The door swings shut behind them, but neither seem to notice.

"You know," she says conversationally as they move along the passage the door concealed. Another 80s hit starts up behind them. _Sweet dreams are made of the..._ "If this was a horror movie, your dad, now an axe murderer, waiting for us some 30 years, would leap out now." She laughs weakly. It isn't funny. Sam seems to not have heard her. He's holding his own phone up now like a flashlight. Who even owns a flashlight anymore except in a earthquake kit? Amy wonders to herself as she trips down a short flight of steps behind him in the gloom, one hand on the rough brick wall. There has to be a light switch somewhere, she's thinking and then he stops and she runs into his back, inhaling the scent of his leather jacket and him, Sam. She takes a quick step back and to the side, looking around him and seeing the door to the utilities main.

It isn't locked. Or rather, the key sits there, plain as day, untouched, in the lock. Sam frowns hard, turns the handle, and they step inside the room.

It's anything but a utilities main.

It's a second office, one that rivals the one upstairs. Or rather, surpasses it. This isn't a place to entertain clients and lounge about, lord of the tiny arcade empire. This is a place of work. Several strange contraptions litter the room. Below a small window-vent sits a console, a chair, lit orange by the streetlight outside. The lights, like upstairs, have not come on down here.

Sam doesn't seem to notice. "Son of a bitch," he murmurs as he drags the light of his phone around the small room. This place, just as dust-encrusted as upstairs, is somehow creepier, more personal. On a tack board, yellowed and fly blown, are pictures of Sam as a baby, of Kevin, of Alan--her dad--of all of them. A hand-held console to a game sits abandoned on a couch. Metal file cabinets still hang half-open.

He ignores the shelves, the instruments, the dust-covered whatevers, and makes his way to the leather and chrome oh-so-80s chair tilted just so away from the desk. Only it isn't a desk, she realizes after a moment, feeling stupid. She's seen touch console computers her whole life, even if she does most of her work on a laptop or a hand-held tablet that fits in her purse.

Sam sits down at it and wipes away two decades worth of dust. He grimaces and flails a hand and the dust finally lets go, settles on the floor like a rejected pet. The music beats a time in her backbone, faster than her elevated pulse.

Nothing happens for what feels like an extraordinarily long time. The console remains blank, dead, and then suddenly it stirs, chirping to life with the distinctive green-black display of her early childhood. But then a number appears, running a tally that keeps increasing as they watch. 28:11:20:16:22:16:34...

Sam taps his fingers again on the clean spot he created on the console and it chirps again, displaying three overlapping windows with an on-screen keyboard. He wipes his hand again across the screen, sits down. The top window is a prompt and Sam types as furiously as one can into a keyboard with zero feedback. It's some sort of DOS prompt, but not DOS. The light of the console reflects up into his face and he looks worried, concerned, confused even. This is not what he expected to find, but perhaps, then again, it was.

$ whoami  
flynn  
$

"Flynn," he murmurs in an offhand tone, like he's forgotten she's there. She bites her lower lip, ignores him, reads the screen over his shoulder.

$ uname -a  
SolarOS 4.0.1 Generic_50203-02 sun4m i386  
Unknown.Unknown  
$ login -n root  
Login incorrect  
login:

"Let's try the backdoor," he says to himself as his fingers shift and slide quickly across the keys.

login: backdoor  
No home directory specified in password file!  
Logging with home=/  
#

He looks annoyed and his fingers hesitate over the keys.

"Just look at the history," Amy says impatiently, her fingers itching to take control.

#bin/history  
488 cd/opt/LLL/controller/laser/  
489 vLLSDLasterControLc  
490 make  
491 make Install  
492 ./sanitv_check  
493 ./configure -o test.cfg  
494 vil test.cfg  
495 vi ~/last_will_and_testament.txt  
496 cat/proc/meminfo  
497 ps -a -x- u  
498 kill -9 2207  
499 kill 2208  
500 rs pa -x -u  
501 touch/ep/LLL/run/ok  
502 LLSDLaserControl -ok1  
#

His fingers hover above the keys as he tries to read the file and make sense of it.

"Run the last file," she murmurs and he nods his agreement.

#bin/LLSDLaserControl -ok 1

APATURE CLEAR? flashes a sudden yellow window.

Amy glances around. Nothing has moved. Nothing has turned on. "Yeah," she murmurs.

Sam looks back over his shoulder at her, shrugs, hits Y.

The room suddenly grows brighter, too bright, not like the lights have suddenly decided to come on but like they are burning, but they're not burning they're falling. There is a triple sounding of a beep, like a digital camera about to go off, and then---blank, nothing. Falling, but not to the floor. Just nothing. Falling.


	2. Chapter 2

**.005**

Amy's eyes open. It's cold.

Sam has a hand around her arm, and he's pulling her up to stand, pressing her into his side. They're sloppy. There's so much noise - he's dragging them out, they're stumbling, and then _oh god_.

"Where are we?" she breathes, and it's such a stupid question because she's looking out into something that she can't even begin to describe. It's not just cold, it's vast, it's wide, and over their heads, there's nothing but darkness and the occasional brief crack of light. They begin to hear a rumbling and the roof of her mouth is tight and dry. She's shaking. She knows she's shaking, she's aware, but she can only watch herself hold it together against Sam.

The rumbling gets louder. Amy's eyes squint and she can make out this form, a form, something that she suddenly feels like she knows. It's the strangest of feelings, uneasy and feral, like something has woken up inside of her, and wants to eat her alive. Sam says something to her, maybe even yells, but she's deaf to him. She feels herself let go of him, stepping forward and watching as the light grows brighter.

She isn't scared anymore.

"Amy!"

Sam is yelling again. Still. She doesn't pay any attention, watching as the form stops and hovers at a close distance. She's seen it before, she thinks. No, _no_ , she hasn't. Her mind goes back and she can see her dad's office, the drawings - there were drawings? No, this goes beyond that.

She can feel her skin crawling. She takes a deep breath. She stands taller. There are two figures that emerge from the darkness now. Not just Sam. Not just her. The light is suddenly over them. She looks up, squints, and there is a hand on her arm, squeezing tightly. Somebody says something but she's not really paying any attention. Is she supposed to be here? Yes. No, maybe.

"Hey -" Amy stumbles back, pressing into Sam. An arm goes around her waist and she shakes herself free. Sam is glaring at the two men in front of her. "Easy, man," Sam says. He throws a hand up in apology. Amy stays quiet.

There's a cry somewhere, behind them, next to them, and she watches another man sprint away. His eyes are wide, wild, his mouth flapping as he rails, "No, no, no! Don't take me! Don't take me to the game!" Sam's arm tightens around her waist again and she watches, half in horror, half in fascination, as one of the men in front of them simply turns to the panicking man. It's then that she notices the staff in his hands and the man swings it quickly, dropping into a long squat and swinging the staff into the other man's legs.

Amy hears the crack. Her hand drops to Sam's arm around her waist and she pulls his fingers off of her, one by one.

"We won't be any kind of trouble," she says loudly. Her mouth quirks. Sam mutters something under his breath. She pays no attention. She is watching the man - no, no. It's not a man. She doesn't know what they are, the two figures, but she does watch one make a fist, tightly, over the staff. She steps forward, between them and Sam, offering her wrists.

"Amy," Sam says behind her.

She shakes her head. "We're going to be fine," she says quietly.

But the figure ignores her offer of polite surrender. One grabs her by the arm, the other launches forward for Sam, and Sam growls loudly, dragging his feet. She stumbles too and it's hard not to cry out, causing Sam to reach for her. "Hey!" he yells. "Knock it the hell off. She's not fighting you, asshole!"

Their protests fall on deaf ears.

The figures pull them back towards the light - the ship, she corrects herself. It seems like the big, tiered spaceship from that one sci-fi film that she used to watch endlessly as a kid. She can think of them, she can see herself in her head, but there are no names or faces and somehow, weirdly, it all feels like a goddamn memory. She is supposed to be here.

The hand - it's a hand, right? - is cold around her arm though. She can feel it through her jacket. There are five fingers. She starts thinking about them like they're claws, talons even, and that makes her think of Mom all the sudden. It's out of nowhere and she's thinking about Mom and how she loved birds, strangely just birds, just after Jamie disappeared and Amy was left being the only miracle child. Is this why? She doesn't have time to finish that thought.

They're being lifted, or Amy feels like she is, so she closes her eyes tightly, tighter, too tight, her head spinning with visions of red and black and orange, just never gold. Her boots touch solid ground again and Sam, next to her, lets out a stream of curses - fuck you, fuck this, where the hell am I? and Amy can only let out a strained laugh, her eyes opening slowly. She sees two open seats, across from each other, and assumes they're meant for them, walking shakily to sit in one.

She sinks down and her back presses hard against the chair. It feels like a pilot's seat, weirdly enough. Her hands touch the handles at the side and she cannot look down; instead, she catches Sam as he tries to talk to the man from before, the one that was running.

He's shaking, weeping into a fist. His eyes are wide and glassy. There is snot coming out of his nose. Amy begins to feel panic again.

The two figures from before are walking toward them.

"No," the man mumbles. He gets louder. "No! No! I can't go back."

"What the hell is this?" Sam asks the guy next to him, and Amy glares - she can't bring herself to tell him to shut up but when he meets her gaze, she can see, she can see that Sam is just as uneasy as she is.

There are no relevant questions. This bothers Amy; it's the slight tilt of whatever they're on, attached to, and the man that is panicking is suddenly drawn into a whimper when the two figures in black approach him again. Things are rumbling, buzzing, shaking with anticipation and energy. She feels a little bit of envy. Sam tenses - she can hear him and everybody's watching.

"Please," the man says.

The figure raises a hand. There's a gun and a crack, a bright light snaking out and hitting the man. Amy watches horrified and fascinated as he wrenches open and then falls back, disappearing into the cold air. Someone makes a noise - a growl, a laugh? She doesn't know.

"Where the hell are we?" Sam breathes.

It's a stupid question, she wants to say. The two figures are watching them. Amy turns her gaze and picks a spot on the floor to stare at.

No one answers his question.

 

**.006**

_New meat._

_The fans are whirling above you, far above you, you don't know how far, but far enough you can just feel their low hum and throb. The platforms that move between surface level and here are rushing back and forth. It's a Game day._

_You'd smile but you're a professional. That just wouldn't do. Still, your lips curve so very slightly at the corners._

_Change is coming._

The wind beats against her face, throwing her hair into her eyes. She swallows. She feels like she should be scared, but she isn't. She's resigned, but maybe something bigger than that, like she's finally finding her path, herself. Still, her stomach churns slightly and she holds one hand with the other.

She wonders, for a moment, as the bright bars of light pass her in seemingly endless arcs, if this is where Sam is going too. She doesn't want to think of the alternative, but she does. Flesh and blood doesn't crackle like the disintegration of a computer program. She swallows, hard, and feels a strange momentary regret for every bad mp3 or old jpg she's deleted; it isn't an unfamiliar feeling--she had this same one when she saw Toy Story--but it isn't a feeling she expected to feel about some kilobytes of data, no matter how passionately they'd thrown themselves upon the sword. Or the fan. Whatever.

_The platform lands with a soft sigh and a click as it locks into place into the raised dais at the center of the room. The program at the center, tall and blond, looks around with a slightly perplexed expression, as if they don't understand. Well, they will soon enough._

_The doors to your alcove slide open and you step out, your footstep one echo of many as it hits the floor in a sharp, strangely hollow click. Right, Left. Pause. Forward. It's like you've all been programmed for it._

_You have._

The room is too dim and too bright at the same time. He looks around, trying to perceive what lies in the shadows at the corners. Then there is this soft noise, multiple and simultaneous, like doors opening on Star Trek or something. It's hydraulic and electronic at the same time. He looks to the corner easiest to see, ahead and to his left. He swallows, hard.

There's a hollow click and then a brief pause. Lights outline a figure in a black suit--a woman, her arms held stiffly at her sides like an old school robot. She takes a step forward and there are matching footsteps that his brain thinks is just stereo but his body screams it's surrounded. She appears from the shadows. No, they appear. Their suits are white, not black. Their presence offers him no sense of relief.

They come closer, but he keeps his eyes on the first one he saw. She's tall and blond, well-shaped in her skin tight suit. Her eyes are dark and he raises his brows in question, but also surprise. He turns then, looks over his shoulder. They approach from all sides. He was right: he is surrounded.

_The program wears unsanctioned street wear. This is unsurprising. Lately, they all seem to. There is no disc either. Again, increasingly common. Only the weak, stupid, drunk, and unlucky get picked up these days unless they are very, very careless or very, very stupid. No one wants to play the Games any more. Some thrill of it has been lost with vagrants fighting gladiator kings. Never mind that everyone loves some fresh new blood._

_Especially when it's spilled._

_Or fractured like so much shattered glass. Either/or._

There are four women. Young women. Lithe and, she assumes, beautiful. Striking, maybe, she revises as they step into the light, though they certainly aren't ugly. She swallows. Smiles.

They step towards her still. Right left right left. They move close, close enough to touch. They look at her, assessingly. She wants to scream out, suddenly, that she is not a program, she is not one of them; don't do it don't do it. But that inner iron core within her holds her steady. She won't. She can't. Something inside her calms her fluttering stomach or at least suppresses it.

She forces the corners of her mouth back into a closed-lip smile and the women seem to pause.

A moment later, their forefingers light into flame.

_The program speaks. They always do. It's tiresome. Don't they know you and your sisters will never respond? It's not in your job._

_It's not in your programming. Not now, anyway._

_The torches light. You strip the program down to bare bones, down to its core, whatever that may be. Circuit board, wires, some sort of skin. You don't care. You just strip it and let its old covering go into the floor--to recycling. Everything here is recycled. It's a perfect system of use and reuse. Perhaps the only perfect thing._

Four women approach him from either corner of the room. At first he thinks they're clad in the same black-on-white skintight uniforms but then he sees they're actually white-on-black. Somehow it's that observation which comforts part of him, that child within him that has played and designed and critiqued so many videogames. Yet the feeling in his gut doesn't lessen, especially when flames appear at their index fingers and they begin to draw them down his sides.

"Can someone, ah, tell me---" he begins and then, to his chagrin, flinches as they crouch, their lit-up index fingers held like guns, the tips flicking with an unholy light as they bend and drag them along his clothes. The smell of burning fabric fills the air. It isn't pleasant even when it's expensive clothing.

"Hey! Hey! It has a zipper!" he protests as the jeans and jacket and tee-shirt he deliberately paid too much for separate where they've burned them open, sliding down his torso, sucked into a small rounded square on either side of his feet. He's left naked, bare, but none of the women look at him. Their job seems to be done. They step away from him in perfect meter.

_Their job appears straightforward: prepare the intended for the ring. For the Games. But there's more to it than that. The drawers slide out and they study the armor stored there. They do so much more. In a small way, they are the decided factor, the straw that could break the camel's back. They look at the armor there. Behind them, the program is having a suit built around it for them to augment. This is a mere shell, a covering. What they will decide here could decide if they die first or...well, not last. Never last. But later. With some fleeting, hopeful sense of purpose. Or despair._

_"This one is different," your sister murmurs and you nod. You were already looking at her for her agreement. This one is different. You're not happy about it but at the same time your stomach--or what would be your stomach if you had one--leaps with anticipation. Your fingers hover for a moment over the standard fare and then you select a better item. Your sisters do the same. You turn smartly. You pace back, in measured steps, to the program. You press your plates into the program and the suit shudders and you take a step backs as it finishes rendering._

_All that's left now is the disc._

_And certain death._

_You almost smile again._

They strip you naked, fully naked, removing every last shred of clothing. You don't know if you should try to cover yourself or not. Your fingers twitch, but you remain still, watching, waiting, like your feet aren't trapped in some sort of light prison, bare and cold. You can see the red polish you put on your toes just a few days ago when you went to hide from your dad out by the pool even though it was too cold to swim. It was drizzling. You were 23. Your mother was dying. You are the bad twin. The prodigal son never returned home.

You close your eyes, swallow hard. When you open them, there is some sort of weird material creeping up around your body, solidifying into a tight catsuit of a dark, thin, flexible textile. It's dark where these women are light but otherwise not much different.

A warm breeze blows at your neck and you shudder as your hair seems to move itself, drawing back into a slicked-back high ponytail. The same breeze shifts, blows around your face until your eyes feel dark and heavy and then subsides.

The women are back now, with some sort of body panels in their hands. You want to flinch and shudder, but you can't.

_You watch the program as the voiceover starts. Your sister moves to get the disc. The others take a step away, rotating on an invisible axis. You however let that smile you've been resisting show in the form of a smirk as you step in front of the program, watching it. You want to gloat. Now is not the time. Later. Later._

_"Attention Program. You will receive an identity disc. Everything you do or learn will be imprinted on this disc. If you lose your disc or fail to follow commands, you will be subject to immediate deresolution."_

_The disc snaps into place and for a moment the program's eyes mirror yours, bright hollow circles of electric blue on an endlessly dark field._

'Mirroring complete, disc activated and synchronized. Proceed to games," says the impossibly ice blond woman in front of you. Her voice sounds normal at first but then you realize it's fractured, like she's speaking through an auto-tuning device. It's a robotic voice. You stare at her, perplexed and perhaps growing comfortable enough to be a bit annoyed that though these creatures speak, they refuse to enlighten you.

"Games?" you ask as the women begin to back away from you in robotically measured steps towards the alcoves they first came out of. You strain forward slightly, but you're still trapped, your feet bound by arcs of light. "Where are you going? What am I supposed to do?" you ask, alarmed to hear a note of desperation in your voice.

The cool blond one, the one that slithered past you a little too close, who seems to be the one in charge, smiles as she steps up and back onto her pedestal.

"Survive," she purrs and then closes her heavily lashed eyes as the gates move forward around her, conforming to her body as the spotlight above her dims.

There's a soft electronic noise and the light disappears from around your feet. You hesitate, take a step forward, then another, down the steps of your own pedestal. Before you, doors open and a blinding, bright white light floods through them. You hesitate, raising an arm to shield your eyes.

You go forward. There is nowhere else to go.

 

**.007**

This is a game. It’s always been a game.

He steps off the ledge onto the platform and that’s when it begins. He still doesn’t realize.

Knowledge is power. Power is a weapon.

The crowd roars and screams, their individual voices lost among their simultaneous cries. It’s a cacophony of sound that drowns out even his thoughts. He can hear nothing; he’s deaf from the sound. Still he knows that his footsteps are hollow echoes, like walking on heavy glass. He steps forward and the roar increases. He’s in some sort of pod. Glass doors shut behind him. It moves upward alongside similar three-sided pods until they meet in the center of a huge area, pausing at either end of larger pods that look like some sort of sporting court. He looks around at the glassy, transparent walls, his stomach clenching. This cannot be good. This is all so beautiful. The same hollow, computerized woman's voice echoes suddenly, loud above the crowd.

_All programs. Prepare for. Disc. Wars._

The crowd cheers now, clapping and screaming incoherently. Above him a large, flat, orange ship moves into place.

_Platform. Eight._

He looks again at the figure across from him, recoils in sudden recognition.

"I have a three inch version of you on my shelf," he whispers, his brow furrowed, his arm extended and finger pointing accusingly at the motionless man across from himself as he steps forward.

_Combatants. Three and. Eleven. Disc. Wars._

The man—a program?—stands across from him. He wears a glass-fronted helmet over his face. He shifts his stance. It’s threatening. Sam pauses, holds a placating hand out. This isn’t his fight.

Or so he thinks.

The man moves in a sudden, twisted whirl, throwing the glowing disc in his hands. Sam watches, his brow still furrowed. At the last minute he throws himself to the floor of the court. It's hard, unforgiving even as it echoes hollowly against his shoulders.

The disc bounces off the sloped walls behind him, smashing and bouncing and returning like some sort of obscene boomerang. Sam swallows hard, scrabbling backwards against the slick glassy surface, propelling himself upward. The man across from him recaptures the disc, pauses and postures long enough for the crowd to roar and for Sam to see, in the identical pod-court next to himself, a program unlucky enough to be hit by a disc exploding into a thousand bright blue-white splinters of information before dissolving. He swallows, knowing, somehow, that blood and bone won't be so pretty when they shatter. And somehow, he knows his plaintive declarations he's a user, not a program, will fall on deaf ears or worse.

The disc is whirling towards him now, too fast for him to make coherent sense of the motions, and he's like a deer in the headlights, helpless to move, his eyes tracking its lethal path as it heads towards him. He throws himself to the ground again in a desperate movement before rising and putting his hand back to grab the disc on his back. He throws it in a desperate heave that's more brute strength than skill. He's never been good at these sort of things. Where is the controller, with it's ABC/XYZ multi-coloured button mashing?

The program avoids his throw easily, almost mockingly, letting the disc bounce off the walls. Sam catches it awkwardly, fumbling it, cursing. Then his opponent's disc smashes into the tile beneath him and he almost falls down the hexagonal hole that opens up in the floor. He swears again, hauling himself upwards in a desperate scramble of limbs. It isn't elegant, but it's effective even as the disc crashes down beside him once more, shattering another hexagonal tile. Sam rolls to the side, panting and uncomfortable. He throws his disc as his opponent does. They both miss. The discs bounce back and forth and back and are still bouncing as the program suddenly sprints forward, launching himself off a tile that lights up and propels him into a forward tucked roll. This is no time to play nice. There is no time for some misbegotten sense of fairness or morality. Sam catches his disc in a crouch slamming it into the floor tile next to him, shattering the tile out. The program yelps and falls through the hole, smashing into a thousand fractured shards at it clips the pod below.

_Combatant. Eleven. De. Resolution._

Sam rises to his feet, his disc still clutched painfully tight in his right hand. His gaze shifts outside the glassy walls. "I won," he says, a note of desperation entering his voice as he pleads with whatever function above that runs this hellish cycle. "Let me out." There are rules, he tells himself, to calm his stomach, his mind. This is a computer. A game. There are always rules.

_Combatant Three. Round One. Victory. Combatants Three. And. Seven. Disc Wars. Combatant Four. Round One. Victory. Combatant Four. And. Six. Disc Wars._

Fuck. He can feel himself sweating in the suit, down under the clear visor of the helmet. His fingers flex against the disc. He wants to shout that this is unfair, but really, what avatar has ever gotten to protest moving forward to the next level of a game? Instead he grimaces, resigns himself to what he hopes will be only one more round. He will find the cheat, the secret, the Easter Egg, the Alt+Shift+Ctrl, whatever. Everything has a backdoor, a shortcut. Everything except life. But this isn't life, this a computer. This is a game.

_Initiate._

The program executes a series of elaborate flips and jabs with its discs. The rational part of Sam's mind wonders what it's showing off for--do these programs have morale? The rest of him clenches, says no. This is not a fight he can win.

"Yeah, I'm out," he says on a sigh that is half-laugh, half-resignation.

The program postures again and Sam charges it, almost before the games can even start. He lets himself fall at the halfway point of the arena, his momentum propelling him along the slick floor and he lets his disc go. It shatters the unsuspecting program. It almost ruins him too, but his partially gloved hands scrabble at the edge of the arena, leaving him dangling. His disc bounces back towards him and he reaches a hand for it, snagging it and letting himself fall to the clear roofs of the arenas below, apart but still relying on the inherent faith of the game.

"It's just a game. This is all just a game," he whispers to himself as he falls, lands hard, runs forward for the next pod. There has to be an out. There's always an out.

 _Combatant. Three. Victory_.

Below him a program looks upward and is shattered. He has no time to contemplate any sense of fair play, 

_Combatant. Three. Violation._

He pauses at the edge of the arena he has come to, unsure if the choice to slide down its side will be his victory or his death.

_Combatant. Six. De. Resolution._

He takes the chance. He leaps. He slams into the side of another arena pod. He slides down it. He has a sudden, ignoble vision of his own death, a spatter of red and white where it should be blue. Perhaps the crowd pauses in its roar for death, horrified at what they've wrought. Perhaps not.

_Combatant. Three. Violation._

But no, this is not the end. He lands in an awkward, bruising tumble into another arena pod. His stomach drops. He feels more demoralized than if he'd met his sudden, inevitable end. The crowd is chanting again, this time together. They're screaming a name his mind cannot make into a word. Still, he knows this to be auspicious. He comes to his hands and knees, panting and sore and tired--so tired. Finally, he has found a fight he cannot win, a game he cannot play, a fate he cannot escape by running away. He bows his head for a moment, takes a deep breath.

_Initiate. Final. Round._

Around him, the glass walls suddenly grow definition, glowing pale blue at their edges. He raises his eyes. This cannot be good. He has circumnavigated the game both too well and not well enough. He has come to the final round ill-equipped. He sends a momentary wish--a prayer, perhaps, though he would not consider himself religious--that she finds a better fate that he, be it death or glory, before he rises from his crouch, grasps his disc.

_Combatant. Three. Versus. Rinzler._

A dark figure, darker than before, lacking the reflective highlights that line his suit and those he's fought before him, steps out from the edge of the arena. This man, as tall or taller than Sam, is darkly helmeted, his face obscured, his suit dotted by orange-red lights. The man--the figure, the program--pauses, growls low in his throat. It's an inhuman sound. It isn't even an animal growl. It's the low, mechanical purr of a machine.

Sam swallows the rising bile that crawls up his throat. He raises his disc in a lunge one last time. He is resigned. "Fuck," he swears softly. "You've gotta be kidding me." He does not, and he would ever, appreciate the irony that the golden boy has finally met a match he knows he cannot alone defeat.

There is a long pause, longer than any so far, before the round begins. It makes his mouth salivate, something he logically know he cannot help, but swallowing just makes the anticipation worse. He tenses in his stance. He is resigned to his inevitable loss, but his brain still cannot grasp that he is about to die. All this for nothing. All this to lose now, alone and obscure. Just a number. He moves his neck from side to side against his shoulders, the vertebrae popping. No, he's always been more than that. He smiles.

  
The crowd is still chanting and stomping and clapping the name: Rinzler. Rinzler. He assumes it's his opponent.

The man across from him draws his disc, then a second. They ignite like they're on fire. Rinzler crouches in a squat, the discs blazing. Sam shakes his head, jerks at his disc like it will suddenly twain into two. Nothing happens.

"Fuck, come on," he mutters helplessly. Is this even legal? Not that he can really complain, he who has skipped so many levels to be here. Still, somehow, he knows that even a single one of those glowing discs makes his odds poor at best.

Rinzler begins a series of gymnastic patterns designed to demoralize, to bandstand, to--whatever. Either way, the crowd has always been on his side and they eat it up. Sam is nothing more than a piece of meat. It's all any of the programs in this game have been. His opponent releases a disc in a sudden burst he can barely follow and he knows that this is it. Game over. He raises a hand, deflects the blow, and cries out as he falls to the glassy, hard, unforgiving arena floor.

The second disc comes for his head, thrown sure and true and he shouts out--cries out in alarm and despair--and falls back, crawling crab-like on all fours backwards for the protection of the wall at his back, to avoid the ricochet. This is the end. The end is nigh. Extremely fucking nigh.

Rinzler recovers his discs, executes another band-standing set of acrobatics and Sam knows now he is doomed, more so than before, but now it's a game. Not a computer game of smashing ABABABABABAB, of joystick jockeying, but a power game. A game of cat and mouse. Rinzler pauses in a crouch, one knee down, throws his disc in the air, a show of prowess.

Sam scrambles to his feet. He can hear the crowd roar and scream, and pushes it out. This is all that matters now. This one moment. It will define him. This is life or death. He swallows hard. If he'd been wearing a shirt, he'd have tugged it down. Instead he settles into a lunge that feels awkward even to him. Last call.

_Combatant. Four. Violation._

The monotone drone of the computer penetrates his ears even as he watches his opponent continue to posture.

_Combatant. Four. Violation._

"Come on," he says, half desperate, half excited.

_Initiate. Final. Round. Combatant. Four. Versus. Rinzler._

It's some glitch, Sam thinks even as he hears it. His opponent pauses though, just for a moment and suddenly a disc comes crashing through the arena.

  
"Fuck. Sam. Fuck. Go!" Amy screams as she lands heavily beside him, her head snapping up, her gaze meeting his for a moment before moving back to watch the blur of information and death that crashes and sparks against the glassy walls. "Go!" she screams again, desperately, and he lunges, throwing his disc.

_Combatant. Three. And. Four. Violation. Initiate. Final Round. Combatant Three. And. Four. Versus. Rinzler._

The crowd screams and roars. They see nothing wrong with this change. They see nothing unprecedented, though it is. They see a game. A better game. A game with higher stakes. They clap and shout. They cry for their champion. He throws two discs. They throw two discs.

Above, their leader grimaces, smashes together the two lighted spheres in his hand, raises his voice against them all even as his assistant frantically searches for information.

  
A new day has come.

They will still lose.

 

 **.008**  
  
And there's no time.  
  
Her body just gives. Her knees hit the ground, as a disc whizzes back past her, the rolling sound shrieking in her ears. It's her legs that twist and she hears--she actually hears--her head crack as it meets the floor of the arena.  
  
It's such a strange feeling, everything going black, blank even with the dull, numbing roar of this place. She's here and there. She feels cold, but not lonely, and there's something in that feeling that doesn't belong to her, that hasn't belong to her in a very long time.  
  
Her eyes are open. Everything clears slowly, maybe too slowly, and the ground against her back is so fucking  _cold_  she can only allow herself to accept not understand. She feels her fingers twitches. She hears someone,  _something_  yelling and thinks Sam, where's Sam which leaves her in mild panic. Amy groans. The sound leaves her mouth; it croaks and it hurts, climbing out of her throat.  
  
"Fuck," she manages. " _Fuck_."  
  
There is a hand on her arm. She feels the fingers - counts them, one, two, three, four, and five - digging into her suit and the flesh below. The sensation reminds her that this is very, very real.  
  
"Keep still," a voice says, and her head tips forward, hitting a body. She hears Sam again, it's distinctly Sam, yelling her name, yelling  _get the hell away from her_ , but her eyes are open and everything is just shaky. She lets her hand drop blindly, forward and to the side, and her nails scrape against another suit. She feels bile rise in the back of her throat.  
  
"I -"  
  
The voice is firm. "Don't move. Don't talk."  
  
Everything seems so hazy and the sounds in her head are far, far away from being shuffled back into order. She doesn't want to lean into whoever - him? It's a him. The sounds of the crowd are too much. She doesn't hear Sam anymore and her head feels like it's on fire.  
  
But she isn't scared, and that's the strangest part about all of this, that she should be scared and she's not. Part of her accepts that she should be here, that she's meant to be here with feelings that she's not supposed to understand. The other part of her, the long, lost, and locked part of her, is just remembering. That makes her uneasy.  
  
She starts to balance herself. Better, better, better. The hand around her arm moves, it touches her elbow, then arm, her shoulder, and then the back of her neck. Someone's yelling again and then there's the crowd, roaring, chanting -  _Rinzler! Rinzler!_  and then Amy's yanked forward again.  
  
"Don't even trust me," the voice tells her.  
  
" _Trust_  -" she gasps, almost, and there are hands on her arms again. There is someone, something - they're  _programs_ , Amy thinks - hovering there behind her too. She feels that hand against her back and her vision clears, just slightly, as she stumbles into a walk.  
  
Everything starts to come together again. She sees Sam in front of her, taunt and angry, even as his shoulders slump in defeat. There are two guards standing with him, hands on his arms, pulling him forward as he snarls. She watches his head drop back and his gaze meets hers. His mouth is moving slowly, forming words - she can't hear, she can't  _hear_.   
  
" _Shut up_ ," she breathes.  
  
Her ears are ringing now. They've come off the platform, and are pulled under a bridge and into a dark hallway. Amy's stomach flutters and she has no idea what to do. There's no reaction, nothing waiting for her, and all her mind can do is transport her back to her kitchen, at home, staring at her dad and the pager and just how easy it was to say:  _I'll do it. I'll talk to Sam._  
  
There are people in the hallway. Guards, she assumes. Some are watching. Some are blurred. There are no faces, no eager display to see who she and Sam are, what they might  _be_. But she's getting chills, her skin starting to crawl underneath her suit. It starts at her throat, against the back of her neck, running down her spine. She thinks sweat. She thinks fluctuations in body heat, temperature,  _whatever_. It feels like mild panic.  
  
And then she sees him.  
  
  
  
 **.009**  
Amy. Where is Amy? This is his first thought. Not the sickening purr of the disc nor the abrupt silence as it suddenly shut off, like a meat slicer in a deli at home. Not the blood oozing from the cut in his arm, in his bicep. It's deep and weeping blood; he can feel a slick damp inside his sleeve. He holds his opposite hand over it, grits his teeth, grimaces. Amy. Is Amy okay? He wants to scream this, shout this, as he struggles futilely in the iron grips of the men--the programs--that hold him captive. Somehow he knows these are words he shouldn't say. Instead he demands to be let go, insults the programs, as if they'll care.

His arm is bleeding. He can feel it oozing beneath his suit.  
  
They take him up, up, up, to the orange-lit ship that hovers above and to the side of the arenas and the spectators. Sam wants to laugh--take me to your leader!--but doesn't. His mind is foggy, clouded with pain. He just wants to be let go, wants to find Amy, wants to go home. They won, didn't they? They beat the system.  
  
He's taken through a foyer, into...he can't call it an office. A command center. A large window against the far wall showcases the arenas, the three-fold mirrored front of the ship. He sighs, exhales heavily, raises his eyes to the hooded, orange-lit figure ahead of him.  
  
"Where am I?" he asks, his tone belligerent. He takes a step forward, away from his guards, and no one moves to stop him. "Am I on The Grid?" he asks, a question he is pretty sure he's known the answer to for awhile. Still, to hear it aloud, to get some external confirmation, feels legitimizing. Cathartic. Maybe.  
  
The robed figure turns towards him, his face masked by a helmet. Where Sam glows blue-white, this man is a sickly yellow-orange, paler than his ship's lights, but still menacing, a warning. He paces forward, he pauses, he says nothing. They stare at each other for a long time. Blood drips inside Sam's sleeve.  
  
"Who are you?" he says finally, summoning all the tired bravado he has left, praying that this farce is giving Amy some time to escape, that she isn't in some similar prison. 

  
And then. And then it all changes. And then he truly prays Amy is not living this same nightmare. Because his eyes suddenly make sense of the figure before him.  
  
It's his father. It's his father's face. It's all his dreams and nightmares come to life. He's taken aback. This is nothing--nothing--he ever expected. The man--his father--smiles. He hasn't aged a day since Sam last saw him.  
  
"Dad?" he says, but it isn't really a question. He presses his hand harder to the cut in his arm, stares, blue eyes wide, barely believing what they see.  
  
"Sam," his father says gregariously. "Look at you. Look at the size of you!" He steps down off the dais, down the steps, towards Sam. He looks pleased, so pleased. He claps Sam on either shoulder. He doesn't seem to notice the hand, the wound, which he presses down too hard upon. Sam grimaces, his mouth is still open in shock.   
  
"How'd you get in here?" his father asks, tone blandly curious, backing away as Sam continues to stare in shock.  
  
"I...I got your message," Sam replies automatically, studying his father, his robes, that awful orange.   
  
"Ohh," his father says. "So it's just you then?" He's strolling about in a studied way, his tone casual. Too casual.  
  
Sam watches him, hand still clutched to opposite bicep, fingers sticky with blood, as his father circles him. Something feels off, so he lies. "Yeah," he replies slowly.  
  
"Just you," his father says again, pacing around him. His dark robes flutter. His feet echo too quietly on the floor. "Oh, well." He laughs softly. "Isn't this something?" he murmurs congenially. He holds his arms out, expansive, all encompassing.

Sam grimaces, wondering just how much blood he's lost or if the feeling of foreboding is from something other than light headed blood loss. His father--the man in front of him--hasn't seemed to have noticed the wound. No one has. No one except Amy and the tall, silent, black-clad figure that stands at his back. For a second he resents this man, this program, for flagging him as a User, as something else, just as he's always resented Alan for noticing he's something other than the rich no fucks playboy he pretends to be. He swallows the bile that rises in his throat. He focuses on the performance his father is giving him.

  
"You look the same," Sam suddenly blurts out, unable to believe what his eyes are seeing. His father, unaged, the same as the day he left him.  
  
"A lot has happened, Sam," the man says gently, too gently, condescending and perhaps gloating. "More than you can even imagine." He smiles and it's not his father's smile. Not the smile he remembers. It's an unkind smirk. Perhaps the years have not been good to him after all.  
  
"Disc," he says and the man--program--Rinzler suddenly removes the weight Sam had almost just forgotten was on his back. Rinzler passes it to his father like an obedient servant. Sam frowns. His father doesn't notice, his head bent over the disc he holds in both hands.   
  
He turns it, hand over hand, like a child with a new toy. "Let's have a look," he says, more to himself than to anyone else in the room. Sam stares at him. Everyone else looks elsewhere. It's awkward. More than awkward. Sam glances at Rinzler, at anyone, but no one looks at him. He's fed up; his arm is bleeding. He hurts. It's been a long fucking day. He takes a step towards his father, whose back is to him now, the disc held up flat like some holy presentation, a blue glow about it. No one stops him. Sam runs a hand through his hair, and a mirthless laugh escapes unbidden. No one else laughs, no one else says anything. They all watch his father, rapt. Sam braces his hands on his hips for a moment, presses his lips together. Blood oozes, soft and warm and sticky. He presses his hand back to the wound.  
  
"Got it," his father says, his tone upbeat but not cheerful or proud or whatever. Sam isn't sure what he's "got". The man shakes the disc next to his head, smiles that toothless smirk as he turns back to face his son. "Hmm!" he says, shaking the disc one last time as his eyes meet Sam's. "I expected more." He tosses the disc at Sam. Rinzler catches it. Sam raises his eyebrows in question but his father turns away to resume pacing.  
  
"So," he says, looking around for a moment before his eyes go back to tracking his father as he paces the room. "You were trapped in here?" It isn't a question.

  
"That's right," his father agrees.  
  
"And...you're in charge?" Sam asks, pivoting carefully to keep facing his father, hand pressed to arm. He feels lightheaded finally. He grimaces. He presses on. Amy. Where is Amy? It's the one question he won't ask. He feels a tightness in his stomach. Something is wrong. Something about this is not right. None of this is right.  
  
"Two for two," his father says, his tone almost mocking.  
  
"So can we just go home now?" Sam asks hopefully, even though he knows the answer in his gut before his father even replies.  
  
His father pauses, his back to him once more, in that braced stance, looking outward at the arena he had been watching when Sam first entered. Sam cannot see his face but can almost imagine the smirk on it. Was his dad always this much of an asshole and he was just too young to notice? He shakes it off after a moment of doubt. Not because he can remember so precisely but because he knows Alan, kind idealistic Alan, would never condone a friendship with someone like whoever this guy is.  
  
"Not in the cards," the man says. "Not for you."  
  
But still Sam hopes. He pauses before he replies, looks away, looks back with a perplexed squint. "Well that's a hell of a way to treat your son," he says, hoping to be refuted, to be wrong, to be yelled at for talking to his father that way.  
  
Instead, the man turns back towards him, dark and malevolent and orange. "Ohh, that," he purrs softly in his father's voice. He walks towards Sam once more, but this time Sam isn't ssurprised-he's afraid. The man pauses inches away from Sam's face, leans in. Smirks.  
  
"I'm not your father, Sam," he says with a quirk of his lips. "But I am very, very happy to see you."   
  
Sam clutches his hurt arm harder. This is all so terribly wrong. This has been wrong from the start. The man backs away a few steps, then turns to survey his domain out the three-fold window. Sam swallows hard. He knows now who this man is.  
  
"Clu."   
  
There is no response from the figure on the dais when Sam says the name.  
  
"Where is he?" Sam asks raggedly. "What did you do to him?" The guards grab his arms, drag him away out of the doors that open silently before them. "Where is he? Where is he, Clu?"  
  
The man pauses before he replies, just as Sam is hauled out the doorway.   
  
"The same thing I'm going to do to you," he says loudly, like a decree.  
  
"What about Amy? Amy! Amy!" He screams her name, his voice ragged, even as he's dragged further and further away, doors closing between them. "Amy!"   
  
  
 **.010**  
There is a memory, a small one, of the two of them, in the back of her head, living there like some old, tired picture frame. They are seventeen. Jamie steals the keys to Dad's office and grins widely at her. "Wouldn't it be funny," he says. Wouldn't it be funny?   
  
Because the memory is old and tired, she doesn't remember if he's the one that takes her hand or if she's the one that takes his. Things like: there are fifteen stairs from the downstairs to the upstairs, and twenty-six steps to Dad's office - they're forgotten, lost to time. These details had no value at the time. They weren't supposed to ever have any value.  
  
"This is such a stupid idea," Amy tells her brother in the memory. In a later part of the memory, Sam is down the hall.  _Visiting_. It may seem like some kind of lie.Keys dangle from Jamie's fingers and he's smiling, he doesn't stop  _smiling_. "Fine," she relents. "But we're going to get into so much trouble, asshole. Especially with Sam here."

  
What happens next is a collection of brief moments:  
  
Jamie sits at Dad's desk first.  
  
Jamie turns Dad's computer on first.  
  
Jamie is--  
  
  
 _\--here_ , she thinks. Her mouth goes dry and she grabs the arm of the guard without thinking to catch her balance as she stares at _him_ , wide-eyed.  
  
His body's turned towards her, halfway, maybe a little more than halfway, but she can see the side of his face. He looks like their mother. They were twins, but he always looked like their mother most - that slight slope in his jaw, the softness around his eyes, and yet the man,  _that_  man standing off to the side has to be  _him_. It has to be.  
  
The guard yanks her forward. She stumbles, and catches herself again, and her mouth opens, "Jamie," she breathes. The guard pulls at her again.  
  
But she can't--  
  
  
\--move as Dad stares at her, wide-eyed and shaken. There's a sob from Mom, Mom who sits somewhere in the kitchen. Sometimes Amy remembers her staring at her hands. Sometimes Amy remembers her staring at fists. Both her parents seem to understand something that she does not.  
  
"What's happening?" she asks, and whether or not her voice is steady, that's not important. Amy carries a metallic taste in her mouth. She is biting her lip too hard. "Where's -" She remembers blue light, mostly blue but also white, and a flash, a long, horrible moment that she cannot bring herself to tell them that she saw. Would they believe her? Would they think it's her fault?  
  
This is her fault.  
  
This is  _her_  fault.  
  
"He's gone," Dad tells her. She doesn't recognize his voice. She remembers that he doesn't touch her. "He's -"  
  
  
"-  _here_ ," she babbles. Her eyes are blurring and the guard's grip tightens around her arm. There are hands on her shoulders now. It's not Dad, Dad's not here, there's no kitchen, no memory, and she's panicking. She's forgotten about Sam and her eyes are glued to the spot where she saw her brother - she's seen him, she's seen him, and he's alive, Jamie's alive and all these years seem to pile up and push against her. He's  _here_.  
  
But Jamie is gone now. Again. Still.  
  
The guard pulls her forward again. There are doors in front of her and something unlocks, snaps, and Sam's trying to jerk back, away from the guards that hold him too. He's bleeding and blood stains his sleeve, his fingers, his hand. She wants to call him an idiot. She wants to yell out,  _cry_ , and ask if he's seen Jamie too.  
  
This isn't that time. She can't find her voice.  
  
They take her into a room. She catches a glimpse of Sam again and wants to throw up, watching as he's dragged off by another set of guards. Her eyes are burning and she's still,  _still_  reeling from what she's just seen.  
  
"Send her too."   
  
There's a voice, and a man but his back is facing her. There's the guy that they fought too, Rinzler, and Amy watches as his hands clench into fists. What is going on? It's such a stupid question and she lets herself catch a breath; the guards pull her back and there's no  _wait_ , there's no Jamie popping into the room, greeting her and saying hey wait, this is  _my_  sister.  
  
Amy's can feel herself going into shock, They lead her down another hallway and then she's pushed back outside. The roar of the crowd is very much the same if not louder - there's a sense of idle unrest, very Roman, and very, very blood thirsty. She tries to wrap her head around it all again. She doesn't have a helmet and some of her hair's whipping into her eyes, slipping from the ruined ponytail. There's no breeze though, so she must be imagining things.  
  
She doesn't see Sam.  
  
It takes her awhile to realize that she's not really outside, but standing in between a group of programs. There are three of them. One looks like he's going to vomit. Another is standing away from the group with his hands clenched into fists and muttering over and over again. She can't hear what he is saying. And the crowd, the crowd is really restless, voices muffled. Her eyes squint and she looks up, seeing that they're underground now instead of outside and the faint glow of the outline of the stadium announces the presence of those who are waiting for them to emerge.  
  
"You're new," someone says, starling her into the present.  
  
Amy looks at him and blinks. The program next to her is trembling. He offers her a tight smile and then smooths his hands over his arms.  
  
"S'my third time," he says. Then, faintly, he adds too: "And probably the last."  
  
She can only smile back weakly.

  
She watches as some of the guards move in front of them. They have those staffs again, crossing them in front of the group as if they were expecting someone to jump or try and run away. Where can they run though? Amy almost laughs.  
  
The other program, the one on her left, is humming. Amy closes her eyes and closes them tightly, trying to tune him and the crowd out. Her ears are ringing. She still sees Jamie too, in her head, clear as the day he disappeared. She has questions, so many  _questions_ , but she cannot afford to bring this into whatever is waiting for her out there.  
  
So she drops her hands. She forces them to relax, stretching her fingers out and rolling back onto her heels. There's a loud groan and the ground underneath her starts croaking, and then jolts forward, moving. She feels them being lifted, slowly and higher and higher, towards the arena floor. She takes deep breaths, calming herself, shutting her feelings down and remembering that they all think she's a program. She isn't going to correct them about that.  
  
This is about survival.  
  
  
  
 **.011**  
 _Grid. Is. Live._  
  
Sam is relieved to see her. They have no time.  
  
"Where the hell did they take you?" he breathes, but it's lost, lost quickly as the programs around her scatter, panicked, and Sam jerks back to watch the competing programs ready for whatever is coming next.  
  
She manages to move forward though. Her feet feel heavy and she is standing next to Sam, listening as the crowd gets louder and louder, roaring, ready for something new, something different outside of the matches that had just occurred for their amusement.  
  
 _Initiate. Light Cycle. Battle_  
  
"We have to get home, Sam," she says. "We aren't safe here."  
  
He doesn't hear her. She watches him turn, and then follows his gaze, spotting a dark figure moving out onto the Grid. This program's suit is different. Two teams, she assumes. Teams. The dark figure slows his walk and then, abruptly, is suddenly sprinting, leaping into the air and exploding over a bike that appears from nowhere. It's beautiful, the light cycle. It lights to the same color as the program and its suit, a fire-heavy orange. The air practically cracks around it. She can appreciate the design, the balance, and the easy way the bike skids back onto the ground. Next to her, she hears Sam's exhale a breath of relief, her eyes glued on the cycle as it sprints into movement.  
  
It comes towards them, faster and faster, and one of the programs near them lets out a loud, panicked yell. Sam grabs her by the arm and the light cycle is joined with four others, rushing faster and faster. They weave through Amy and Sam's small group; Sam yanks her off to the side and she's thrown up against his chest as the bikes - they're goddamn  _bikes_ , she decides - roar past them. The crowd lets out a thunderous cheer laced with feverish anticipation.  
  
"We got no chance!" one of the programs yells. He and the others are already jumping in front of her and Sam. Amy pulls herself back against Sam's body. "Their bikes are faster than ours!"   
  
He says something else but Amy doesn't hear and Sam tosses her one of the sticks - she doesn't remember seeing them. She must've dropped hers, carrying it from waiting underground. She doesn't even remember holding onto it. It's her panic, slow and quiet, building, churning, waiting to catch her completely off-guard.  
  
Sam looks down at her. The crowd cheers again. He offers her a grim smile.  
  
"Now this I can do," he says.  
  
He arches an eyebrow. She barks out a laugh. Her throat is dry.  
  
"Idiot," she mutters.  
  
But she gets it.  
  
Sam takes off first, sprinting into a run. Amy follows. Her legs hurt, but she follows easily. There's a brief, painful memory.  _Jamie_. But she shoves that out of her head, and instinct takes over, her hands cupping the stick, the  _bar_  as the two of them leap like the other programs had earlier.  
  
It's a much different kind of energy than the battles; Amy feels the air around her start to crack, circuit against her hands into her fingers. The bike morphs underneath her, her legs straddling the seat and a helmet manifests over her face. She sees Sam shoot forward, then disappear into the Grid. She groans. He was riding like this even when they were kids.  
  
But the Grid is different, alive almost - she can hear the crowd again, even as it becomes nothing more than a faint murmur in the back of her mind. She breathes. She jerks the bike into a higher speed. It roars to life, thrusting her into a path behind one of the bikes from the other team.  
  
"Shit," she mutters, and the bike veers away from the path and behind her, the bikes from her team fall into riding with her. There's Sam who takes the lead, close enough to her but far enough to be separate. She catches a look, a quick look, but can't see his face. That's the only thing that scares her.  
  
The group rides into a corner, taking it quickly as they draw into the center of the Grid. Her gloves tighten around the handles of the bike and she can see the other team, squinting as the light becomes bigger and bigger. It's hot and heavy and she feel her suit slick with sweat sticking to her skin. Her hair is matted to the back of her neck, what's left of her ponytail an uncomfortable mess.  
  
Her gaze stays steady on the other team. They get closer and closer and one of the other programs yells out something to Sam, but Sam remains at the head of their group, singularly focused. For a moment, she thinks they're going to ride into the other team but the middle of the Grid seems to split up into other roads like labyrinth.  
  
A bike roars and the others jump ahead of both her and Sam. Sam looks towards her and she catches his gaze.  
  
"Here we go!" he yells, giving a jerk of his head.  
  
They split up.  
  
  
The program in front of her goes down, hit when a bike from the other team skids, sliding underneath the bike and sending the program from her team into a crash. It's the strangest thing; the program breaks, shatters into a million different pieces, like the video games that were around when she was a kid. She half-expects a taunt of  _game over_  to flash over her head.  
  
Instead she grips the handles of her bike tighter, turning it down another road, hoping to find Sam because they should stay together, they  _should_  stay together if they're going to get out of this. The crowd is chanting again, and again, and getting louder. Her bike skids forward and she snarls, half-drowned by another scream. A teammate, she assumes.  
  
She rolls into position with another bike and the program shoots forward, passing her quickly. Sam, Sam, Sam. It's not  _him_. Her eyes follow the program and she slows the bike a little, just a little, as another bike from the other team comes into play. The program rolls his bike towards her teammate and they start to bump against each other.  
  
Her hands are fists again. She watches the two bikes sway and crack - one of the programs reaches out and punches the other one. It's followed by another punch and the bikes begin to tremble in trying to keep on path. They loop around a corner and she swears,  _swears_  she sees the other program reach out and catch something on her teammate's bike.  
  
Something cracks and Amy stops her bike, cutting herself off in a corner as her teammate's bike begins to wobble off the track. It moves faster and faster and then falls onto its side. Amy feels the bile begin to rise in her throat and the bike crashes, flipping over and sending sparks everywhere. It explodes and the program drops like a doll onto the Grid, sliding limply to the ground.  
  
Amy flexes her hands, her bike coming to life again as she shoots forward. She follows the opponent, her eyes narrowing, figuring that one of them will lead her to Sam. He shoots forward and the light from his bike explodes, scorching the ground underneath him. She follows in kind and they split; Sam's bike appears and he's locked in some kind of contest with another biker.  
  
He veers off path and she hears herself yell Sam's name, her bike pushing into speed. Sam. Sam taught her to ride. Her father nearly killed him for it, but Sam taught her. She talks herself into the memories: keep your body tight, hands steady, and never let yourself get distracted--  
  
But Sam disappears into another road, and the biker from the other team shoots into another direction. Shit, she thinks.  _Shit_. She pushes herself again, trying to keep calm and avoid a confrontation. All that matters is staying together. They need to stay together.  
  
There is a roar behind her and she half-groans, half-sighs, and remembers the disc on her back. She skids her bike into a turn, and faces another biker from the other team, stopping her bike to watch him. Amy takes a deep breath and hunches closer to her bike.  
  
Her bike starts to go faster and faster and she can hear it growl, yell - or is that the  _crowd_? - even as she reaches behind her, grabbing the disc off her back. She snaps her hand out, training her gaze on the biker as they get closer and closer. She jerks her hand forward and her disc hits the program's bike, cracking as it drags against it. Her opponent swerves to the side and Amy pulls her hand and the disc away as the bike slips and then crashes. She hears it explode behind her and feels the heat against her back.  
  
She doesn't look.  
  
The road becomes quiet again and the light is the only thing keeping her company. Everything around her seems to be humming now. Her hands flex over her handles and her bike skids onto another road, catching Sam and the other biker as Sam's bike shoots into action. It flies over the opponent's bike, knocking it off course and into a crash. The bike explodes and she takes the chance, half-hidden by the light.  
  
"Hey!"  
  
Sam's bike slows down. He sees her. "I've been trying to find you!" she yells back and he flashes one of those stupid, lopsided grins.   
  
"We have to work together!" Sam yells. "Two of us are it!" His bike rumbles and she lets out a loud laugh. It's crazy. It's a rush.  
  
Suddenly, this is a rush.  
  
Her entire body is pulsing. Sam nods towards the road above their heads and she sees another biker, lit only by that eerie color. Their bikes push into speed and Sam breaks away from her, Amy veering off to the side, taking the road underneath him and their opponent. She breathing hard, biting her lip. Her teeth sink into her skin and she catches the colors of Sam's bike and the other program's from the corner of her eye.  
  
When she takes the turn, she's suddenly leveled with them both, turned into the parallel road. She pushes herself fast and the light behind her grows stronger and stronger. She  _feels_  the bike crash into her, the entire bike pulsating with the energy. She can't help but look back and watch the bike and the program explode into light.  
  
Focus, she tells herself. Focus.  
  
Sam's bike catches up with hers at the corner, and they turn together, Sam letting out a loud  _whoop_. She can't help but grin and laugh nervously - it doesn't matter, he's never going to know - as they start to pick up speed again.  
  
"We're gonna jump!" he yells out, and she nods, waving her hand to signal her agreement. She jerks herself back and the bike leaps forward, ripping through the air. Her wheels hit the ground and Sam's grinning at her - she just knows - as they near the bridge of the next road.  
  
They jump.  
  
Their bikes launch into the air and her heart is pounding in her chest, in her throat and she can see another biker turning onto the road. Sam's bike drops first and she takes the opposite side. They trap the biker, speeding up so that the light boxes him in. He sways side to side and Amy looks back, watching as he struggles against the two walls.  
  
But the bike wobbles, turning onto its side, skidding forward and flying in between both Sam and Amy, shooting faster and faster towards Amy. The bike crashes into her and she cries out, feeling the burst of energy connect to her body as her own bike spins out of control too.  
  
Everything starts to move in circles, around and around, up and down, and the crowd's reaction comes crashing into her mind in the form of a brutal roar of delight. She can feel her mouth open but she doesn't hear the scream she lets out or hear Sam's anguished cry of her name.   
  
She hits the ground  _hard._  
  
Her body doesn't stop either, tumbling, slipping and sliding across the road. Her shoulder is pounding. Her whole side feels like it's on fire and as she comes to a stop, she manages to push herself up to watch her bike explode back into the slim black bar. She tries to force herself to stand - she has to get to  _it_  before what's left of the other team comes around again. She can't think about what's going to happen later or what she's injured.  
  
She breaks out into a limping stumble, seeing Sam's bike squealing into a turn and heading back towards her. It's dark and then it's not and her eyes are struggling to adjust to the Grid. Her head is spinning. Get the stick.  
  
"Amy!"  
  
She drops down, sliding on her stomach and grabbing the stick and then scrambling back onto her feet. She's reacting, just reacting, and her legs pump her into a desperate sprint as she hears the loud roar of an engine behind her.  
  
" _Amy_!"  
  
Don't think, don't think, don't  _think_. Her entire body  _hurts_. Sam's  bike pulls alongside her and he reaches out, grabbing her by the arm. He pulls her hard and she swings her body towards the bike, letting him drag her onto the cycle behind him. Her arms shoot forward and she wraps them around his waist, one hand still gripping the stick even as she drops her head against his back.  
  
"You okay?" he yells, and she wants to laugh, just laugh because no, of course not, of course she's not okay. This whole thing is screwing her up. Time is still cruel. She doesn't give an answer. There's really nothing to say.

  
Amy manages to squeeze his hip, a reassurance. It's small, tiny, but there's nothing else she can offer. She talks herself into silent focus, willing her head to stop jump around so that she can see the other biker. The crowd is chanting a name - she can't quite hear it well enough to understand it, and there's this sense of growing dread that she and Sam are nearing some kind of finale.  
  
She wonders if Jamie is watching.  
  
No, she thinks. Something inside of her twists, knows. He's watching.  
  
Sam keeps the bike racing, and they're heading towards another road, ducking into one of the lower levels of the Grid. She sees the orange, hears the bike again and their opponent is coming towards them, faster, faster, and faster. She sees the program rip the disc from its back and _oh god._  Her fingers dig into Sam's waist.

  
"Sam!" she gasps. "Sam! He's -"  
  
But it's too damn late and the two bikes cross into each other, their opponent jerking his arm against their bike. She and Sam skid forward and then to the side and Amy goes flying again, Sam close behind her. She rolls onto her arm and Sam's lying sprawled on the ground somewhere near her, yelling  _shit, shit, shit_  as he scrambles to stand. She's exhausted and she feels like there's just nothing left within her to get through the last of this, but she has no choice so she pushes her sore body back upright.  
  
She's moving again and rushing to Sam, who grabs her by the arm and pushes her behind him. It's not to protect her. It's because they have two discs and somebody's going to have to give the first blow. Sam pulls his disc out from behind his back and she's groping for hers, her arm snapping out taunt, ready to do damage in case it's the only thing she can do. The disc is heavy in her hands and she presses herself onto her toe, biting her lip. Her eyes grow wide as the biker drags his disc along the ground and sparks start to shoot everywhere as it comes closer and closer to them.  
  
Behind them, there's a loud shriek, a roar, and the sound of tires rushing towards them. A car squeals into place in front of Sam and the doors fly open. There's a a figure, a girl Amy realizes as her helmet clears from view, and she lets out a loud laugh.  
  
"Get in!" the driver shouts. "Hurry up!"  
  
Sam doesn't hesitate, grabbing Amy by the hand and snapping his disc back into place. They stumble to the car - Amy dropping into the back and Sam shutting himself into the front.  
  
The car spins into gear and the girl lets out a loud laugh like she's pleased with herself. Amy feels sick and slumps into the seat, sprawling onto her back with her eyes closed. She wants to feel something human. She needs to feel something human, something her, something necessary and  _stable_. Her hands rise and frame her head and she's pulling at her hair, undoing most of what's left of that stupid, stupid ponytail and she can feel her eyes start to burn. They blur and she's not, she's not going to fucking cry.  
  
The girl meets her gaze in the mirror first and then Sam's. "I'm Quorra!" she announces cheerfully.  
  
Quorra and Sam shake hands, or stumble into shaking hands because Sam's still shaking and the two of them are sort of lost to what's really happening. Amy throws an arm over her eyes and the leather of the seat feels too cool and sticky against her cheek. She's sort of swimming in and out of consciousness, adrift in her own thoughts, going back and forth between the Grid and Jamie and the Grid again. They're off the Grid now, or at least, this is what she understands, and she's peaking, just a little from underneath her arms, out the window to a landscape of dust, of dirt and that strange, faint light.  
  
The dull roar in her ears subsides and she catches the end of whatever conversation Sam and Quorra must have been having.  
  


" _Patience_ , Sam Flynn."

Amy smiles weakly, putting her arm back over her eyes.  
  
  
The car disappears into the desert.


End file.
